Heavy, but Not Metal!

We love lots of local bands, but what should we do when we get all hepped-up about seeing our fave-of-the-moment someplace (one that we've usually scrawled incessantly enough about already) when our Locals duty dictates that we go out and hunt up our next fave? We're starting to miss some great gigs, blast it! Stupid job! You there! The sad, soul-sucked sap who works for that world-famous computer-game company! Don't you wish you had our problem? Of course you do!

On this night, we partially solved our predicament when a quick search revealed it had been six whole months since we last scrawled about the fabulous Moseleys, who were sharing a bill with two bands we believe we had never heard of. So we opted to hit downtown Fullerton (which we're calling the Live Music Capital of OC on account of all the clubs there now; latest addition: the Back Alley Bar & Grill, not to be confused with the larger Backalley a few doors down).

But let us first discuss the merits of the Arrogants, a five-body band fronted by a girl singer and a guy who strummed a nifty-looking Rickenbacher. They seemed to be going for a hush-hush, Mazzy Star/Cranberries thing—lots of slow, sad tempos, with some intricate, whirly things thrown in. They were nice and warm and all, but perhaps a tad too mellow, and they really ought to pump up their tempos—give the drummer some, kids! Maybe they should've imbibed several cups of the Hub's fine caffeine before starting their set. Also, from the doorway where we were planted, we could barely hear their keyboard player for anything more than an occasional doot-doot. Not their fault, we're sure, but it seemed like such a waste of a perfectly good Roland, more of which would have injected an alluring sense of mysticism into their set (which they actually capture well on their new EP, Your Simple Beauty). But the Arrogants attracted heaps of people to their show, so at least they have that. Most of those peeps unfortunately split when the Arrogants did, so not nearly enough stuck around to catch Spitfirevolver (a.k.a. "Spitfire Revolver," or maybe even "Spitfire Evolver"; we've seen various spellings). Too bad because they missed a neat band, a trio with a guitarist who armed himself with a spiffy flying-V axe (don't stress —they were heavy, but not metal). Though their singer tended to overemote a tad and didn't "sing" as often as he wildly hollered (nothing wrong there, really), we sure did dig the band's sub-grindcore power riffage, inspired partially because we had spent the afternoon grooving on an advance of the heh-vee new Fu Manchu album, King of the Road, which, shockingly, we must admit we really like—every damn stoneriffic riff that's on it, in fact. And we weren't even toking!

Anyhoo, Spitfire (are their fans called Spitheads?) churned out sweet, riffed-up rawk that was so good it was probably an advanced form of emo. We then hoofed it to the Backalley, hoping to catch the Rx Bandits, only to find not the Bandits (who we missed) but My Superhero, playing what was purportedly their last-ever gig as a five-piece (word from several very reliable sources has it that they're paring down to a trio). After some power schmoozing on the crowded Backalley patio, it was back to the Hub for the Moseleys, who once again killed, with their wigged-out (literally! Love those inspired 'dos!) blast of lust-gone-oh-so-wrong, hip-thrusting, psycho-hoodoo, crotch-grinding, raw-and-untamed, baddest-of-the-bad-meaning-good, raw-and-untamed Brit-blues awesomeness. They even knew obscure cover songs, like the R&B oldie "Have Love Will Travel."

The Moseleys don't do promo—they don't even have tape/CD/shirt swag to hawk—so you must work to find out where they're playing next. We know we'll be there—if duty doesn't come calling first, that is. Curse you, confounded duty!